


(30. Catch) / I'll fall into your arms

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [30]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fear of Falling, Gen, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 30 - CatchAziraphale has had enough. He has spent decades, centuries tip-toeing around like this, being afraid like this, hating himself for being like this. He will not let Crowley do the same, not now that they are finally free from all of it.And so, the argument had begun.And so, it seems, it would go on.Aziraphale drops back in his chair, lets his head hang over the backrest, takes a deep breath. He shouldn't get angry about this. He knows the fear well, the irrational thoughts, the constant worry of Is this it? Is this the final step that does it? It was hard enough dealing with it on his own. He can imagine how it might feel for Crowley, thinking he would be responsible for it all.“I'm sorry.” Crowley's voice is shy, filled with trepidation. It makes Aziraphale's heart ache.





	(30. Catch) / I'll fall into your arms

“We stopped the planned end of the world and broke Her Great Plan.”

“Mhm.”

“We denounced our respective sides.”

“Yep.”

“We lied to their faces, played tricks on them, made them think we are not simple members of the angel-demon divide anymore.”

“Well, they came to that conclusion themselves.”

“Frankly, we've lived in nothing but sin ever since.”

“That might sound a bit more raunchy than it actually is, angel.”

“And yet.” Aziraphale sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You're still afraid of me falling.”

“Aren't you?”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley, who, arms crossed and neck hidden into his collar as he slides down on the sofa, very much resembles one of the angry teenagers they keep visiting.

“No! No, Crowley, I'm not! I know it's taken years to convince me, I understand how you could still have some trepidations about it all. But we are on our side now. I don't believe there is anything I could fall _from_, anymore.”

“That's some very rhetoric bullshit and you know it. You're still an angel.”

“Yes, I am. _Still_. Despite all we've done, and all we continue to do. Despite the fact that I am openly consorting with a demon-” Crowley seems like he wants to interject to that particular kind of phrasing, but Aziraphale will not let him get a word in this time “-and that I'm doing a myriad of things I never thought an angel could do, and have been doing even before this whole... situation. I am still an angel. Don't you think if I were to fall for all that, I already would have?”

Crowley is quiet, suspiciously so. They've had this argument before – not all at once, but bits and pieces, separate lines recited from one long play, and yet nothing has ever convinced him. Aziraphale doubts his silence is proof of change.

“I'm just worried.”

“You can also be worried that a meteor is going to hit the earth tomorrow, or some freak accident will cause a zombie apocalypse, but that doesn't mean it's going to happen. It's not something we need to think about.”

“It's not like I'm _planning _to think about it. I don't _want _to think about it. It just comes up sometimes!”

It does. And it usually does so at the worst moments.

Crowley has dropped his hand in public several times, misled by the suspicion other angels might be around. He's stopped him from frivolous miracles, 'non-angelic' ones, stopped him from asking questions and debating things with Anathema, going so far as to actually start a fight with the poor girl about 'tempting' an angel to bad thoughts (because if Crowley is anything, he is a  _massive_ hypocrite). He has, more than once, broken up a rather nice moment in the bookshop, or the flat above, carefully set Aziraphale's clothing back into its original state, and avoided pretty much any physical contact for hours afterwards.

Aziraphale has had enough. He has spent decades, centuries tip-toeing around like this, being afraid like this, hating himself for being like this. He will not let Crowley do the same, not now that they are finally free from all of it.

And so, the argument had begun.

And so, it seems, it would go on.

Aziraphale drops back in his chair, lets his head hang over the backrest, takes a deep breath. He shouldn't get angry about this. He knows the fear well, the irrational thoughts, the constant worry of Is this it? Is this the final step that does it? It was hard enough dealing with it on his own. He can imagine how it might feel for Crowley, thinking he would be responsible for it all.

“I'm sorry.” Crowley's voice is shy, filled with trepidation. It makes Aziraphale's heart ache. The endless unsaid words that one apology contains, the countless years, the many scenes where they parted without so much as a sorry to smooth things over. The demon isn't one to apologise, not unless he feels irrevocably and painfully at fault. Which he isn't, but that is harder to get into his head than anything else.

The thing is, Aziraphale might think he understands. He might even think he's convincing them both with this repeating argument.

The thing is, he doesn't. He isn't.

He can't imagine what it feels like. To make someone fall. To be the tipping point of an angel's descent into darkness. Granted, Crowley doesn't exactly know what it feels like either – it's not like there's any other angels he's spend six millennia tempting and toying with that have fallen by now – but he can imagine better than anyone, especially when it comes with negative connotations.

The thought of seeing his angel burn, his feathers turning into ash, the weight of guilt and pain and remorse he'd carry for the rest of their unending lives – it's too much. It overwhelms him, and he has to pull back, has to put a stop to whatever has caused it. Things are going too fast, sometimes, and yes, he is well aware of the irony, thank you very much, it doesn't make this any easier.

By this point, neither of them has said anything for minutes after Crowley's apology – the argument instead continuing in their heads, in silence, both of them knowing full well what the other might say, knowing how this all turns out. It always goes like this. Soon enough, Aziraphale will give up, Crowley will see it as his defeat, having made the angel feel worse again, and so he will retreat back to wherever it is he goes after an argument now that he has no more flat to hide in, lick his wounds, and return in a few days pretending like nothing ever happened.

Until the next time he lets go of Aziraphale's hand, or shushes him during a debate, or looks at him below him, all open and flushed and vulnerable, and feels like a predator planning to kill.

This is how it always goes.

Aziraphale has had enough of it. He has one more strike prepared, one more thing he has to say out loud, since Crowley cannot provide it in his own inner argument, considering he's never heard it before.

“You know.” He begins, his tongue heavy in his mouth, as if it was a lie, but it truly isn't. Not anymore. “I'm not worried about falling. I'm not even afraid of it, anymore. I wouldn't even care if I did.”

“Angel-!”

“No, I mean it. I could fall tomorrow, and I think I'd be fine.”

Crowley stares at him, and his expression is impossible to read. Anger. Shock. Fear? There are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes.

“How.”

“Because, my dearest.” And Aziraphale sits up again from his slump, leans forward, closer to him, as close as he can without getting up, since this argument is not over, the reconciliation not yet begun. “Because no matter what, I know you'd be there to catch me. Maybe I should've known much earlier. You would've always been there to catch me, even centuries ago. I would never have needed to be afraid.”

Crowley swallows, his mouth feels dry. He can't speak. He barely thinks.

“No matter what, you're always there for me. I wouldn't go through it alone. And no matter what I am – angel, demon, human, anything inbetween – I will never need to worry about it, because you'll be at my side.”

“Yes.” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale finally smiles.

“So if I fall tomorrow, or in a year, or never. I don't care. I'm not afraid. As long as I have you, I don't need Heaven or my wings or my grace or anything else.”

He watches as Crowley buries his face in his hands, gives him a second, a moment to compose himself – which he can't, as his trembling shoulders and quiet sobs prove. It's too much. The angel's trust, his love, this never-ending and all-encompassing and terrifyingly wonderful feeling they both share is too much.

The argument is not over. It will come back again, as it always does, because habits are hard to break, and fears are not easily fought, and Crowley's mind can be a truly monstrous thing sometimes, punishing him for things he is not even guilt of. 

But for the first time, it might have actually proven a point, Aziraphale thinks as he moves over to the sofa to hold him tight, close to his heart, combs his hair and kisses the crown of his head. 

Whether it changes now, or the next time they recite this play, or the time after this. He'll be there to catch Crowley when it breaks through. Just like he would be there for him.


End file.
